Ned and Burl, Chanceville's Newest Detectives

BBB had been found in a burnt up car parked next to the woods near the cabin where High Horse Harry lived. The registration in the glove compartment had not burned up. His name was Bertram Benedict Bunnington.

Now Sheriff Yesper Orange may not have seemed like the sharpest knife in the drawer. That was a clever ruse. His hooded eyes with its wrinkled lids, like a turtle’s, didn’t miss a trick. When he was scooping up what remained of Harry, he noticed some sort of medal. He would have to check that out later. For now, Harry’s remains were safe and Yesper could sift through the ashes for clues when all the fuss died down.

Of course, the Blind Poodle Sisters couldn’t see him, but a few days after High Horse Harry died, a stranger had been walking past their house several times a day. Was he watching them or High Horse Harry? A few days after Harry went up in smoke, the stranger approached Nanette and Babette when they left the house without their maid, Poppy. He had a quiet conversation with them as they walked along.

“Hello, Lovely Ladies,” he said.

“Oo, I like your voice,” said Babette. “Who might you be?”

“I’m the man who would like to ask  a favor,” said the stranger.

“What kind of favor?” asked Nanette giggling into her hand.

“I’d like permission to erect a life-size carousel horse in your front yard in honor of High Horse Harry,” he told them.

“Did you know him?” asked the sisters in unison.

“Let’s just say I’m an admirer of his,” answered the stranger.

“Will it have lots of color?” asked Babette?

“Of course, that’s the beauty of carousel horses,” he answered.

“Deal,” said the sisters in unison again. “Just make sure there's lots of color.” The twins had such vivid memories of color and surrounded themselves with as much color as they possibly could, the brighter, the better. Even though they couldn't see it, it made them smile to think of all the color in the world. 

“Much obliged, ladies,” said the stranger. “I promise; you won’t be sorry you agreed to this.”

“One more thing,” said the stranger. “If I find out that you mentioned this conversation to anyone, and believe me, I will know, you will not get a colorful horse and we will never meet again.” The ladies only nodded in agreement.

With that the stranger took first Babette's and then Nanette’s right hand and kissed it, his fingers lingering a moment on the twins matching opal and diamond rings, a gift from their father on their sixteenth birthdays. The sisters continued down the street twittering into their freshly kissed hands, not caring a fig about the carousel horse, but really hoping they would meet the stranger again and hear his melodious voice once more.

The folks of Chanceville couldn’t talk about anything else but the shocking demise of High Horse Harry. Sid Topp had to order extra coffee because so many people hung around at the diner long after they’d finished their meals to dissect, so to speak, not only what happened to Harry, but also, who he actually might be.

Geraldine Nurse, town librarian, supposed he might be an army deserter hiding behind that beard, long hair and cowboy hat that seemed like a good disguise to her.

Hubert Patterson reckoned that Harry might be his long lost Uncle George who had run away with the circus 30 years ago. Clearly, Hubert had forgotten his Uncle George was only about 5’6” tall and had curly red hair and he would be about a hundred years old by now.

“The last time I remember hearing Harry rant was a couple of weeks ago,” said Mr. Williams, The Younger. “He was going on about crossing a buzzard with a butterfly. His new creature would look much more beautiful than a dirty old buzzard as it pulled out the guts of some possum lying on the side of the road.”

“Well, I say, Harry was just a crazy old buzzard himself and not too pretty to look at,” said Hubert, as he not too daintily slurped his coffee from a saucer.

Maxine Crabtree, Zealous Hospital Volunteer announced loudly that Harry paid the ultimate price for being an unrepentant sinner. Although, when pressed by the patrons of the diner she could not say exactly what Harry’s sins might have been.

“I don’t rightly know. He just had the look of a sinner about him,” said Mrs. Crabtree defensively. Everyone in the diner knew that Mrs. Crabtree believed the whole town was teeming with sinners.

By now, Sid Topp had heard all he ever wanted to hear about High Horse Harry. Sid wasn’t an unfeeling man; he did feel sorry for poor old Harry. But enough was enough. When the good people of Chanceville started chewing on a bone, they wouldn’t let go. Besides, if he had to keep filling up all of the “bottomless” coffee cups, Harry’s death could turn into a losing proposition here at the Tip Topp.

Fern Oldhat, who loved a good fugitive from justice story, reckoned High Horse Harry was a Nazi war criminal who never made it to South America.

“I still can’t believe it. I guess I ought to count my blessings that I wasn’t hit also, ” said Tarsal Henley. He had thrown out the clothes he was wearing the day the lightning hit Harry, but no matter how many times he showered, he thought he could still smell that stench.

“I’m sure Harry wasn’t too thrilled about it either,” said Sid Topp as he poured Tarsal another cup of coffee.

“ I wonder what Sheriff Orange did with the ashes?” asked Hal Hendricks, owner of Hendricks Funeral Parlor and Wax Museum, having a vested interest in the remains of the people of Chanceville.

“I saw him sweep them up in a bucket, “ said Charlie Towne, the train stationmaster.

“You’ll have to ask him what he did with them after that,” said Sid.

“That I will,” answered Hal as he perused the menu, looking for something new on a menu that never changed.

“It’s just too weird,” said Tarsal as he headed out the door.

A few minutes later, Ned Cochran and Mrs. Burl Tree entered the diner and took a seat at the counter. Everyone was glad that Tarsal had left before Ned arrived. They’d had enough drama lately.

“How you doing, Mrs. Tree?” asked Ned.

“Not too bad, thanks,” she replied. “Still in shock like everyone else, I spose.”

“True. Harry came here as a mystery and left here in another one,” replied Ned.

“Sure would be interesting if we could find out who High Horse Harry really was and where he came from,” said Ned. “I guess we’ll never know.”

“We might be able to find out something,” said Mrs. Tree as every head turned toward her.

“What do you mean?” asked Sid as he served Ned and Mrs. Tree the meatloaf special.

“Maybe we could go have a look in his cabin. I haven’t been in there since he moved in,” said Mrs. Tree. “Would you consider taking me over there, Ned?”

“Of course,” he answered quickly. “When would you like to go?”

“How about after we finish eating? It’s too far back in the woods for me to walk, but I think we can get there in your truck,” she said.

Cora Jean the gum-popping snappy-talking waitress at the diner said, “Hey, I finish my shift in half an hour, how ‘bout if I go with you guys?”

To Ned’s relief, Sid reminded Cora Jean that she had promised to work an extra shift that day because Jenetta Joyner the other waitress at the Tip Topp  had told Sid she was having her bicuspidor removed this afternoon. Ned didn’t think he could stand listening to Cora Jean’s gum popping the rest of the day.

High Horse Harry

For about a year High Horse Harry had stood, rain, or shine, six days a week at the corner of Main Street and Main Avenue, in front of the blind Poodle sisters’ house, shouting to the world his thoughts on everything. No one knew what his name really was or where he came from. He simply appeared one day and began yelling. Shortly after he appeared, someone had dubbed him High Horse Harry and the name stuck.

Harry never talked to anyone or answered any questions. He stood and shouted at the world for two hours every morning and then disappeared back into the woods to an abandoned cabin that sat at the back of old Mrs. Burl Tree’s property. It was so old; even she couldn’t remember anything about it. Mrs. Tree let Harry stay there. He was harmless and it was kind of nice to know that someone was around since her husband had died two years ago.

The cabin had no running water and probably never had electricity; even so, Harry always appeared fairly clean. He looked to be over six feet tall. He wore bib overalls that were always a little too short, a plaid shirt, a greasy looking cowboy hat and a woolen poncho in bad weather. His dark hair and beard were long, but not unkempt. If you got close enough to look, which few people did, you could see piercing green eyes under shaggy black eyebrows.

Most days people tolerated or just plain ignored Harry, but today was not going to be one of those days because Tarsal Henley was nearing the corner of Main Street and Main Avenue. Now Tarsal had never been known for his patience or tolerance and today was no exception. He usually managed to avoid that particular corner, but he woke up spoiling for a fight and High Horse Harry seemed like a good place to start.

“Never plant an elm tree near a maple,” yelled Harry. “They are sworn enemies and will uproot each other given half a chance.”

“You’re an idiot, High Horse Harry,” said Tarsal in a vain attempt to out yell Harry.

“And about as bright as those morons who think dogs have souls. You’d better get the hell out of here cause I’m getting real close to slugging you.”

“So what you need to do is plant an oak between the maple and the elm because acorns are known far and wide as peacekeepers,” said Harry. “ There will be no warring tree shenanigans in their presence.”

“Did you hear me, Harry? Did you HEAR me?” screamed Tarsal.

“Some folks think it’s the dogwood that is the peacekeeper, but they’d be wrong. Dogwoods stir up as much trouble as elms and maples, they’re just sneakier about it so people don’t catch on.”

With that last statement Tarsal had had about all he could take and he was raring back his fist when the clock on the courthouse struck twelve. Harry’s quitting time. He stepped down from the rickety old crate that served as his soapbox and walked away from Tarsal and headed for the woods. That was when Tarsal jumped on Harry’s crate and smashed it to smithereens.

Tarsal headed straight for the Tip Topp diner where Mrs. Tree happened to be having lunch. Everybody was complaining about everything. The whole town had been cranky since that dang feud over dog’s souls had caused the church to split. Mrs. Tree, who was normally a patient person, was starting to feel a little on the snappish side herself.

Sid Topp was behind the counter as usual. As soon as he saw Tarsal Henley come in the door, he could tell Tarsal was fired up even more than usual, which was considerable.

“Anything besides coffee today, Tarsal?” asked Sid as he sat a mug of strong black coffee in front of Tarsal, who flopped down on the stool with a thud.

“High Horse Harry is getting on my last nerves. I’ve a good mind to run him out of town,” said Tarsal between coffee slurps.

“Oh, shut up, Tarsal Henley. You big blowhard,” said Mrs. Tree.

Every head in the diner snapped to attention. For a few seconds, it seemed as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room. A chorus of throats cleared and everyone became very interested in their eggs. Sid looked at Mrs. Tree and mouthed, Thank you. The majority of the citizens of Chanceville had wanted to tell Tarsal Henley to shut up for years now.

For once in his life, Tarsal has the good sense to zip it. He knew that if he talked back to sweet old Mrs. Tree, that he might be the one run out of town instead of High Horse Harry. But, typical Tarsal style, he couldn’t leave without making some sort of statement. He slammed his mug down sloshing coffee everywhere, stood up, threw his money at Sid, and stomped out. It was then that everyone burst out laughing.

About a week later a shellacked wooden box appeared at the corner of Main Street and Main Avenue. On each side was painted a beautiful carousel horse. A crowd was gathering to examine the box and take bets on whether High Horse Harry would actually stand on this work of art. And stand, he did. Harry walked right to it, stepped up, and stood on the box as if it were the same old rickety crate he had used all those months.

Two weeks later, High Horse Harry was standing on his corner shouting about the evils of marshmallows. The sky was a menacing color of purple and people were passing by at an even faster pace than usual, scurrying to get out of the impending storm. No one noticed that Harry had moved on to a new topic.

“Rabbits are the spawn of the devil,” yelled Harry. “Their slimy little noses twitch out Morse Code messages from Satan. Yesterday, a little white rabbit told me the devil is holding Abraham Lincoln hostage.”

He said this just as the rain hit and a loud clap of thunder rattled the windows of the Poodle house. It was about that time that Tarsal Henley was scurrying by. Zap! A bolt of lightening hit the metal beads on the band of High Horse Harry’s cowboy hat. Poof! Harry was gone. All that was left were the smoldering remains of the wooden box.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had come. As a crowd began to gather, Tarsal was still standing there. He appeared to be dumbstruck, but everyone knew that wouldn’t last long. The blind Poodle sisters hurried down their sidewalk to find out what all the commotion was about. They were waving their white canes around, hitting Tarsal on the shins, causing him to come out of his stupor.

“What the heck?” said Tarsal as he blinked in an attempt to focus his eyes.

“Is that you Tarsal Henley? You smell like a wood stove,” said Babette or was it Annette Poodle? Before Tarsal could answer, the sisters’ maid, Poppy, came out to herd the sisters back in before Tarsal started fighting with them. The news about what happened to Harry spread quickly and everyone wanted to stand around and gawk at the smoldering pile of ashes.

Finally, Sheriff Yesper Orange came along and dispersed the crowd. He had brought along a shovel and bucket and scooped up the remains of the box and what was left of High Horse Harry. Sheriff Orange borrowed a garden hose and a broom from the Poodle sisters and with Poppy’s help they got the sidewalk cleaned off.

The Sheriff took the bucket of ashes back to his office and placed them in a shoebox. He taped it up with duct tape, wrote HHH on it, and locked it in the office safe. He would soon place an identical box labeled BBB. Before long he would have to decide what to do about tracking down Harry’s true identity.

Tammy and Peggy Measure Up

The newlyweds spent another two days in Chicago, sight seeing by day, long leisurely dinners in the evening, and quiet lovemaking at night. Hal was gentle and patient with Tammy. He never made the connection that it was his profession that caused Tammy’s reticence in bed, he assumed it was his age. Tammy loved Hal for many reasons, but even with her previous non-existent experience, Hal seemed a little unimaginative in that department. But it was mainly the dead who seemed to follow him everywhere that she couldn’t get past. She was careful with his feelings and would never tell him that it was his work that put her off. Because, really, what could he do about it? 

They settled into their quiet new life upon returning to Chanceville. Tammy, who had been raised by a very superstitious mother and grandmother, was always on edge in their home/funeral home. It didn't feel like she and Hal lived there alone. It seemed the dead not only followed Hal, they followed her. The whole place was filled with spirits and chatter. Even when she played Hal’s stuffy old classical music loudly, it still didn’t drown out the ghostly conversations.

Hal was always busy with work and his community activities so Tammy started spending more and more time in the Wax Museum. The wax figures were so poorly rendered that they weren’t life-like enough to be creepy to her, closer to comically misshapen. If you put a Nazi uniform on Charlie Chaplin, you suddenly had Adolf Hitler. Which, theoretically, doubled their inventory; all they had to do with most of them was change their costumes. Hal had proudly told her that the wax museum had been his mother’s life work. Tammy didn’t believe that the oddities of the figures were from lack of talent, but a reflection of her mother-in-law’s worldview. Fuzzy at best.

Hal’s mother, Peggy Hendricks, was currently residing at the Sally Forth Home for the Elderly and Infirm. Owned and run by former exotic dancer, Sally Forth. Hal and Tammy visited her every Sunday after church. They used to take her out for a meal, but Peggy kept trying to go back to the kitchen at the Tip Topp diner, thinking she should be cooking Sunday dinner. They began stopping by the diner on the way and brought chicken dinners for the three of them.

“I don’t think I got a very good do on the mashed potatoes. They seem a little runny,” said Peggy with a mouthful.

Tammy reached over with her napkin and tenderly wiped the old lady’s chin. She reminded Peggy of her own grandmother, chin hairs and all. She wondered if she could tactfully offer to help the old lady with some personal grooming. 

“No, Mother,” said Hal. “The meal is perfect, especially the potatoes. Thanks for making them; you know they’re my favorite.”

Mrs. Hendricks smiled a wide baked bean smile at the two of them.

Tammy visited her mother-in-law a couple of days a week. If the old lady was having a good day, Tammy would sign her out and take her back to the Wax Museum. The two of them would putter around in amiable silence as they fussed with the figures. Peggy showed Tammy how to delicately clean the surface of the wax figures without damaging their skin color, which mostly seemed to be tinged with green, giving them all a slightly bilious look.

If Peggy were having a very good day, they would stop at Prissy Paulson’s Try to Measure Up Fabric Shop and buy material to fashion new outfits for some of the wax figures more tattered ensembles. Tammy’s Grandmother Vera had taught her how to sew. She was a firm taskmaster, so everything Tammy sewed was expertly done.

“Now Tammy, always thread your needle from right to left for even hand stitching. If you thread left to right, it will look like the cat sewed it,” said Grandmother Vera. Tammy was never quite sure where her grandmother got these ideas, but she certainly would never have been so rude as to question her beloved grandmother. 

She had what, to Tammy, seemed like a million of these superstitious rules for every facet of life. Tammy didn’t like to think she was superstitious herself, but she found that she automatically tried to stem the tide of bad luck and observed rituals that brought good luck to her and those she loved.

One day when Tammy went to pick up Peggy at the Sally Forth Home for the Elderly and Infirm, Peggy seemed really excited to see her.

Before Tammy even got a chance to greet her, Peggy said, “It’s time we spruced up Mrs. Clark, Pioneer Woman. Peggy alternately called Pioneer Woman, Mrs. Clark or Mrs. Lewis. Can we go to the Measure Up Fabric Shop and get some new fabric? I know exactly what I want.”

“Of course, Mother Hendricks. That sounds like fun,” said Tammy.

Peggy already had her jacket on and was in such a hurry to get out the door that she almost knocked Tammy down. As Tammy turned laughing, she, and Peggy tried to get through the door at the same time. They simultaneously snapped their fingers first on the right, then on the left to ward off evil doorway twins, saying be gone Evil Doorway Twins! This time they both burst out laughing, surprised that they knew the same superstition.

When they arrived at the Measure Up, Prissy Paulson greeted them warmly asking what she could do for them on this fine day.

“We want to spruce up our pioneer woman, Mrs. Lewis," said Peggy. 

Prissy looked at Tammy and winked. Tammy suppressed

 a giggle. It was one of Chanceville’s worst kept secrets that Mrs. Clark/Lewis resembled Mae West, Dance Hall Girl, much more than a hardscrabble, worn out Pioneer Woman.

“We have some new feed sack prints that I think would be just the thing,” said Prissy as she led them to the back of the store.

“That sounds perfect,” said Peggy and Tammy simultaneously.

“Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” said Tammy and Peggy.

Peggy picked out a soft pink and green flowered print for Mrs. Clark/Lewis’ dress and some bright blue sequined rickrack for the trim around the provocatively scooped neckline. Perfect, thought Tammy.

Tammy treated to lunch at the The Tip Topp Diner where she managed to keep Peggy out of the kitchen for once. Then they headed back to the Wax Museum to begin what could possibly be the finest effort of their partnership to date.

Hal and Tammy's Honeymoon. Sweet Suite

In another part of Chanceville Tammy Hendricks, wife of Hal Hendricks, owner of Hendricks Funeral Parlor and Wax Museum was so dissatisfied with her life that at age twenty-five, she was thinking of running away from home. Maybe she had that seven-year itch, that she had heard about.  Hal was ten years older than her. He was so old fashioned that he looked and acted more like fifty than forty. She couldn’t picture him as a little boy. He was one of those people who seemed to be born old. It wasn’t as if he were a bad man. He was kind and provided for her well. Hal didn’t believe women should work outside the home. She was just so bored out of her skull that she felt like screaming along with chiming of the courthouse clock every hour on the hour.

Her father had left Tammy and her mother when Tammy was only two. She had no memory of him. Her mother died when Tammy was 18. Hal was very sweet to her when she made her mother’s funeral arrangements. She was alone in the world and after the funeral he helped her to settle her mother’s affairs, what little there was to be settled. He spent a lot of time with her, holding her when she cried. Tammy told him she didn’t know what she would do without him. And she meant it. She was vulnerable and he knew it. A few months after her mother’s death, he offered to marry her and take care of her the rest of her life. In her fragile, naive state she agreed. She was only thinking of security and not what actually went on between a husband and wife.

They had a simple civil ceremony and went to Chicago on the train for their honeymoon. Tammy had never been out of Chanceville and Hal seemed like a man of the world to her. He had been to many funeral director conventions in the Windy City so he knew his way around. They took a cab to the Drake Hotel. Tammy was overwhelmed by the grandeur of it. When she saw the room with the beautiful big bed, it started to dawn on her that they would be occupying the same bed in a few hours.

“Shall we freshen up and get ready for dinner?” asked Hal. “I’ve made reservations in the best restaurant in the hotel.”

“There’s more than one?” she asked.

“Oh, my dear. There are several restaurants and private clubs. We will dine well tonight,” Hal answered. “And in the morning, I suggest room service for breakfast,” he said as a big smile appeared on his face.

Tammy wondered why he was looking at her that way. What was so amusing about room service? A sudden shiver went through her body. And like so many other important signals in her life, she chose to ignore it.

Tammy had no idea what most of the items on the menu were so Hal ordered for her. He was enjoying his role as mentor and didn’t make her feel like a hick. She was relieved he didn’t order anything exotic for her. Hal asked her if she liked chicken and when she said yes, he ordered something call cocoa van for both of them. She didn’t think chicken and cocoa sounded like much of a combination, but she would have to trust him as she did in most things. To her great relief, it turned out to be chicken and vegetables, she could manage that. He ordered wine with dinner. Tammy had never had wine before.

“I think there’s something wrong with this, Hal,” she said. “It tastes sour.”

“It’s not sour, it’s dry,” Hal said.

This puzzled her and she stuck her finger in the glass to test its “dryness”. This only served to endear her to him even more.

“Sorry. Dry means not sweet,” he said without judgment. Tammy didn’t see much point to a drink that wasn’t sweet, but she kept that to herself. She would have been happy with a Coca-Cola. It was clear to her that Hal was trying to make the evening really special.

Hal ordered Baked Alaska for dessert.

“What is Baked Alaska?” she asked him.

“Well, it’s basically baked ice cream,” he said as her blue eyes opened wide.

“Come on. Stop teasing me,” she said. “I’m no cook, (to Hal’s everlasting dismay, this was true) but even I know you can’t bake ice cream. Sounds like we’ll have to drink it.”

Hal just smiled.

It was at this point that they brought out the most beautiful thing Tammy had ever seen. The church ladies’ merengue could never hold a candle to this artfully sculpted delight.

Oh, Hal. This tastes as luscious as it looks,” she said, almost forgetting to swallow that first bite before speaking. Hal couldn’t have been more pleased.

When they had finished their coffee, Hal suggested they return to their room. Tammy was thinking that she wasn’t ready for the evening to end. Hal was thinking that the evening was just beginning.

Hal opened the door to their suite, carried her over the threshold, and placed her gently on the chaise lounge. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and flipped the locks firmly. Then he went to the phone and ordered breakfast from room service for 8 a.m. without consulting her about what she would like to eat or what time. Hal thought she seemed to like it when he took charge.

While Hal was in the bathroom, Tammy was looking in her suitcase to see what he had packed for her. He had insisted on buying her all new clothes for their honeymoon. The first item she pulled out was a pale pink peignoir set. She held it up to the light. She could see the chandelier through it. She started to tremble. Just then, Hal emerged from the bathroom dressed in pajamas over which he wore a maroon silk dressing gown. Tammy had only seen men wear dressing gowns in movies. Her idea of Hal from Chanceville, Indiana didn’t fit with the sight she was seeing now. She started to giggle nervously. She was glad the dressing gown wasn’t monogrammed, or she would have been rolling on the floor by now. This was all just too much. Tammy realized too late, that it probably wasn’t good to laugh at your husband as he prepared for their wedding night.

“What is so funny?” he asked.

“Sorry, I’m just nervous. You look handsome,” she said looking at the floor.

“Oh,” he said, unconvinced. “Why don’t you go in the bathroom and get changed?

Tammy draped the peignoir set over her arm and took her toiletries bag into the bathroom with her. The big tub in the bath and the wonderful smelling bath salts made her decide to take a long, a very long hot bath. Meanwhile, Hal kept tapping on the door, checking on her and pacing on the expensive carpet impatiently. When she finally emerged from the bath, Hal was the one who started laughing and shaking his head.

“Oh, Tammy. How dear you are to me,” he said.

When Tammy had put on the flimsy peignoir set, she felt so exposed that she put the thick terrycloth robe provided by the hotel over the flimsy ensemble.

Hal had ordered champagne while Tammy was in the bath. He was hoping this would settle her nerves, he was willing to be patient, but hoped he wouldn’t have to be.

When he popped the cork on the champagne, Tammy jumped straight into the air. She definitely needs her nerves calmed, he thought. Hal poured them each a glass, handed hers to her and gently led her over to the bed.

“To my beautiful wife and many years of married bliss,” he said as they clinked their glasses.

She took a hesitant sip and decided she liked the bubbly sweetness. (Hal had learned his lesson and ordered a sweet Spumante.) After Tammy had finished her first glass, he took it from her; he didn’t want to take advantage. He sat it on the night table and gently began to ease that blasted heavy robe off her shoulders. Tammy was feeling warm and friendly and didn’t resist. Hal took off his dressing gown and they sat down on the edge of the bed together. Things progressed nicely until Tammy got to thinking about all of the dead people Hal had touched and she suddenly had her own case of rigor mortis. Well, at least that would feel familiar to him. 

Alpaca Strikes Out at the Jasmine Tea Room

Geraldine Nurse had hired Alpaca as her assistant at the Loone County Public Library on a three-month trial basis. When Alpaca reported for work the next morning, she took one look at the little smirk on Geraldine’s face and knew that she had already heard about what happened at the hospital with Milton, Mr. Matthews. She had seen that smirk before on the faces of some of the ladies in Saints of the Lakes when they found out she was leaving town.

The fact that everyone in Chanceville probably knew what she was up to wasn’t going to make her mission any easier, but she would not be deterred. She ran once. Never again.

Alpaca worked five days a week with Thursday mornings off. She had specifically requested this schedule and Geraldine Nurse the  County Librarian knew this wasn’t a random request. It appeared to Geraldine that Alpaca had a plan behind even the simplest of requests. Mrs. Nurse agreed to Thursdays off for Alpaca and couldn’t wait to find out why that special request had been made. And find out she would. The Chanceville Grapevine had never, ever let her down.

Of course, we can all guess where Alpaca would be on her Thursday mornings off. On her first morning off, at precisely 9:45 Alpaca strode into the White Jasmine Tea Room. She was wearing an understated gray suit with a tailored white blouse, matching gloves and a gray velvet bow headband perched in front of her tightly wound French twist. She wore three-inch heels; Alpaca enjoyed accentuating her height. Small pearl earrings and her watch were her only accessories. As soon as Mrs. Little saw Alpaca Finn make her entrance into the tearoom, she realized the day just got a good deal more interesting.

“Good morning, Miss Finn,” said Mrs. Little.  “I’ll show you to a table.” Miss Little enjoyed giving her customers the personal touch.

“That won’t be necessary, my dear,” replied Alpaca as she scanned the room for the table that would best suit her purposes. She chose the angled window in the front where she could see out onto the street to her right and the rest of the tearoom to her left. That was fine with Mrs. Little. The tearoom wasn’t too busy yet and wouldn’t put too much of a burden on either of the two waitresses. Besides, Mrs. Little was more than a lot curious about why Miss Finn chose that particular table.

Mayrose Mayhern arrived promptly at ten o’clock, as was her custom. By the time she was inside and the door had barely swung shut, Alpaca Finn swooped down on the unsuspecting Miss Mayhern.

“Oh, good morning, my dear,” twittered Alpaca. “I’m Miss Alpaca Finn, as you probably know. It’s so lovely to see you. Please join me at my table. I’d love to have tea with you and get to know you a little better since I’m now a permanent resident of Chanceville. I would love to have you attend one of my afternoon teas.”

It was about this time that Mr. Milton Matthews arrived. After he quickly assessed the situation, he stood with Mrs. Little behind the counter to watch the unfurling of Alpaca’s plan and the resistance with which it would surely be met.

Miss Mayrose Mayhern, dressed in her pearl pink suit, took exactly two steps back and looked Miss Alpaca Finn all the way up and then all the way down at an excruciatingly slow pace.

“No thank you, Miss Finn,” said Miss Mayhern. “That won’t be necessary.” Her words like icy swords cutting Alpaca to the quick.

Alpaca stood there as if frozen, along with everyone else in the tearoom. Well, except for Mayrose Mayhern who stepped lively on the way to her usual table in the back. If you had been a keen observer of Miss Mayhern over the years, you might have detected a microscopic upturn of the corners of her mouth. She couldn’t abide pushy people and as far as she was concerned, the equally obnoxious Mr. Matthews & Miss Finn were a matched pair.

Still stunned, Mrs. Little recovered herself as best she could, gently moved Milton to the side and went back to take Miss Mayhern’s order.

In spite of his less than positive opinion of Miss Finn, Milton felt a little sorry for her. He knew well the sting of Miss Mayrose Mayhern’s chilling blue stare and how painful that could be. But he knew better than to get in the middle of whatever that embarrassing display was. He decided it might be better to enjoy his tea at home today.

As Milton walked home and the shock of that scene wore off, he reached the realization of exactly what that scene was about, which made it even more ridiculous. Miss Trout er Miss Finn, whatever her fishy name was, apparently saw Miss Mayhern as a rival. He had no interest in Miss Finn whatsoever, even if Miss Mayrose Mayhern didn’t exist. As for, Miss Mayhern, he had to admit that he was more than a little intrigued.

Meanwhile, Miss Alpaca Finn went back to her table and sat down regally. This wasn’t the first time she had been publicaly humiliated and probably wouldn’t be the last. If Miss Mayhern thought Alpaca Finn was going to turn tail and run, she had better think again. She would simply outshine Miss Mayhern; she had lots of sleeves and lots of tricks. Everyone in Chanceville might as well pull up their chairs and enjoy the show.

The Many Thorns in Sara "Sugar Pant's" Petersen"s Side

Sara “Sugar Pants” Petersen had decided to become a volunteer at the Loone County Hospital. She hoped seeing people who were really sick might take her mind off the hot flashes that had been plaguing her lately. She had been working  there a month now and wasn’t sure if she would be able tolerate Mrs. Crabtree much longer. She always seemed to be there no matter what day Sara volunteered. How many times did that woman have to be told that she didn’t want to pray with her before they started their shifts? She believed in God, but was not one to waste His time on the little things. Sara knew that she had been short-tempered lately. She had been especially prickly since last week when she was washing windows in the vain hope that she could cheer herself up with sparkly windows. 

Her husband, Tim, had called her Sugar Pants since they were first married. She had always thought it was sweet and special, only for her, until that day when she was in the upstairs guest room washing the windows. She saw him in the back yard standing at the fence; she leaned out the window to ask him if he was ready to come in for lunch when she saw he was talking to their neighbor Althea Goodnight. She heard him say," Your rose garden is really outdoing itself this year, Sugar Pants".

She didn't wait to hear Althea's reply, but eased the window gently down and sat on the bed and cried hot tears. She cried at the least little things, but this didn't seem little; it seemed big, too big for her to accept, too big for her to let go of. Maybe she would just smother him in his sleep one night and bury him under those precious roses he admired so much. My God. What was wrong with her? Talk about over-reacting. But thinking about the plan made her feel better, gave her something to focus on besides the humdrumness of window washing and lunch making.

She guessed she was going through the change. She was about the same age as her mother was when she went through it. And the horror stories she remembers hearing when her mother and her friends got together for coffee every morning made her want to smother her own self with a pillow rather than go through this crazy-making phase of life.

The next day at the hospital Sara managed to extricate herself from Mrs. Crabtree and spent a pleasant afternoon chatting with patients and their families while handing out magazines and candy. She was wheeling her cart back to the volunteer office when she saw Mrs. Crabtree barreling down the hall, the old cart’s wheels protesting squeakily at its breakneck speed. Mrs. Crabtree’s face was so red that her pink circles of rouge had disappeared from her cheeks. She was huffing and puffing so much that Sara was afraid she was going to faint.

“What is wrong, Mrs. Crabtree? Are you all right?” asked Sara.

“Water. I need water,” gasped Mrs. Crabtree as she leaned on the cart.  Sara went to the water cooler and returned with a cup of water. She helped hold it for Mrs. Crabtree whose hands were shaking mightily.

‘There, that’s better. Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Crabtree.

“Do you need to see a doctor?” asked Sara.

“Oh, no! I just had a run in with that newcomer Milton Matthews and that creature who was visiting him,” answered Mrs. Crabtree.

“What on earth happened?” asked Sara, curious in spite of herself. It was about that time that Nurse Jackson and a nurse’s aid named RaeAnn came over to see what all of the commotion was about.

“Well, he was just plain rude. Imagine, not letting me pray for him,” said Mrs. Crabtree. The other three stifled laughs, not daring to look at each other.  “And the late Reverend Finn’s sister was there visiting. It looked like she had had her claws sharpened at the Lovely Locks Salon and was ready to sink them into Mr. Matthews. Even though he’s a heathen, I feel sorry for him if he falls into her web.”

Sara, Nurse Jackson, and RaeAnn scattered as quickly as they could when they realized Mrs. Crabtree’s personal peril was falling into a Pit of Judgmentalism.

The speed of sound would be the only measurement fast enough to explain how quickly the “Hospital Incident” spread around Chanceville after Mrs. Crabtree’s tirade to the women at the hospital.